


A Stranger Sometimes

by helloearthlings



Category: King Falls AM (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Depression, During Canon, Friendship, Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 17:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17084744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helloearthlings/pseuds/helloearthlings
Summary: Five times Sammy thought about killing himself, and one time he was grateful he never did.





	A Stranger Sometimes

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be the shortest thing I could work on and finish this morning, but uh....it's not short. Succinctness is not a strength of mine, but I hope you guys like the fic! Warnings for typical Sammy headspace angst and references to suicide, but nothing worse than canon. Enjoy!

**1.**

Sammy doesn’t know how many pills he’d have to take to die.

What he does know that his father has a shotgun, and he keeps it in a wooden cabinet in the living room, and has for most of Sammy’s life. It’s not loaded, but Sammy half-remembers his father teaching him how when he was eleven years old.

The memory sticks out, all the details clear. It’s one of the only times Sammy’s father has paid attention to him in the past fifteen years.

He could do it, Sammy thinks, if he really wanted to. His father wouldn’t notice the gun was gone. He could take the gun, drive to someplace secluded, someplace where his body could rot among the trees. Someone would find his body eventually, but maybe not for a few days.

His father might not even care. His mother would, she might even cry, but they’d both be grateful in the end. Rather dead than –

Sammy can’t think about that.

Sammy’s always known he was different, uncomfortable in his own skin, set apart from everyone around him by something invisible that he could never name.

He can name it now, so before bed every night, he thinks about his father’s shotgun and how it would be better to just get it over with now. Save everyone a lot of pain. Especially himself.

He never does, though. He thinks about it every night but he scares himself out of it. Cowardice, his father would say if he knew half of what went on in Sammy’s head. Everyone knows Sammy’s not ever going to make anything of himself, especially if he’s a –

Fuck, Sammy really can't think about that.

One night, just shy of his sixteenth birthday, he wakes up from a nightmare about drowning. There’s a burst of terrified energy in his chest and he gets out of bed. He creeps past his parents’ bedroom door in the darkened house, past the kitchen, into the living room where the gun cabinet is buried in the back corner.

Sammy stares at it, but it’s like his body is made of dead weight. He can’t even lift his hand to unlock the cabinet. His entire body is made of needles.

If he reaches out, he knows he’ll see it through to the end. His hands shake and shake the more Sammy thinks about it.

He doesn’t reach out.

**2.**

James is sort of a dick, but at least that means he never asks Sammy how he’s doing. Sammy doesn’t know how he would answer that question, but he thinks about it a lot, probably because no one ever asks him that except a well-meaning professor who noticed how much his hands shake.

“You’re acting weird,” is all James will ever say, with a raised eyebrow and a derisive laugh if Sammy even begins to say something, anything, to him.

Sammy doesn’t know what the problem is for the longest time. He assumes at first that he feels shaky and nauseous and like a weight is sitting on his chest every day because he’s in a sort-of quasi relationship for the first time in his life, and this would be happening regardless of whose bed he was sleeping in.

And sure, maybe that’s part of it, feeling the weight of a thousand eyes on him all the time, like every move he makes will be the one that gives it away, like any time he sees James in public makes every part of their relationship so, so obvious, and yes Sammy still has nightmares about drowning but life is starting to feel more like drowning every day.

Then he realizes that if this was just about the world, then he should feel better when it’s just him and James, but he doesn’t, he feels worse. Maybe it’s because he hates himself just that much, but maybe it’s something else.

“Better get going,” James tells him when Sammy spends too long at his apartment. The level of patience James has for Sammy ranges from less than a day to however long it takes Sammy to get him off. “Use the back door again. Don’t want anyone to see you coming or leaving.”

Usually, Sammy just goes, but today he just stares at James. Sammy’s still in bed, James is standing in the door to the bathroom, mostly a silhouette from here, but when James takes a step closer, the sick feeling in Sammy’s chest gets worse.

“You don’t have to say that every time,” Sammy tells him flatly, getting up all the same. “I want people know about this less than you do.”

“Whatever,” James rolls his eyes. James is in Sammy’s year at the same college, but a different program. They have different circles, different friends. James is the only other gay person Sammy’s ever met. “Get out of here. I’ll call you this weekend.”

He sounds less than enthusiastic. That’s fine. Sammy doesn’t really want to see him either.

“You don’t have to,” Sammy tells him as he grabs his sweatshirt from James’s desk.

He’s feeling nauseous, and not altogether inside of his body, and he thinks about asking James if he can stay for half a second before he realizes that it’s James who’s making him feel sick, that the longer James looks at him the more Sammy wishes he didn’t exist. 

James raises an eyebrow. Condescension, James is good at that. Judgment, he’s even better at.

“Yeah, well, what else are you gonna do?” James laughs, short and cruel. “You’ve got me and homework in the library, Stevens. You never really do anything else.”

“Whatever,” Sammy mutters, grabbing his bag and not making eye contact, ignoring the sinking feeling in his stomach that James is right, that Sammy really doesn’t have anything else. A few friends, no one close, no one he could call to hang out with or go to a movie or spend any time with outside of a classroom.

Certainly no one to be with like he is with James. But then again, Sammy hates being with James. For the first time, he realizes that it’s not entirely on him, that James is a pretty easy to hate all on his own.

James doesn’t kiss him goodbye. Sammy usually wishes he would, but not today. He thinks he’d break if James even tried.

Sammy doesn’t see anyone on his way to the back door. James had driven him here, and has never offered a ride home, so Sammy’s stuck walking the ten blocks back to his own apartment.

It’s dark, it’s winter, and it’s about as cold as Florida ever gets. Traffic is heavier than usual, and Sammy finds himself unable to move when he reaches the first street corner, staring at every car that passes by.

It seems like it would be pretty easy, getting hit by a car on a night like this. He can hear sirens in the distance. Maybe someone took his idea already. 

Too high a chance of surviving, Sammy tells himself as his hands shake. You’d just get injured beyond repair and have to keep living anyway. Not worth it. Pills. A shotgun. Something faster. He doesn’t want it to hurt.

He doesn’t even really want to die. He just wants to stop feeling numb. He wants his hands to stop shaking. He wants to not hate himself, he wants James to be a better person, he wants to not be in Florida, he wants to have a different life entirely, he just wishes he weren’t so alone and isolated and inside his own head all the time.

Sammy makes himself keep walking, gets back to his apartment, says hi to his roommates, and closes himself up in his room.

He sits on the floor shaking for most of the night, telling himself that if he wants to kill himself, there’s nothing in his room he can do it with and if he goes out the door, his roommates and their blaring music and laughter and friends over will see him and just _know._

He makes it through the night.

James calls on Friday, but Sammy ignores it. He might give in eventually, but not right now.

Instead, he makes himself do what he’s convinced himself out of six times since starting college, and goes to the radio station and asks if they need any student volunteers.

“Oh, yeah, totally, we always need new people,” the guy who’s manning the front desk says, enthusiastic and bright from the second Sammy walked up, stammering and not making eye contact. Not a great first impression for anyone who wants to be on the radio.

The guy hands Sammy a form, his smile genuine. “Just fill that out and I’ll let my boss know. There are plenty of shifts no one else wants, if you’re willing to do weekends or early mornings. You’ll have to do voice tests and stuff, but if they like you, you pretty much get free rein of the place. It’s a really fun gig.”

“Thanks,” Sammy says, doing his best to return the smile, and then makes himself talk again. “Uh, I think you’re in my copy editing class?”

“Oh, dude, yeah,” the guy says, lighting up. “Um, Sammy, right?”

Sammy nods, a little surprised the guy knows his name. Sammy doesn’t talk a lot in that class, he feels out of his depth. “And you’re…”

“Jack, Jack Wright,” they shake hands, and Sammy’s skin doesn’t immediately crawl at having physical contact with another person, which is a good sign. “That class stresses me the fuck out. Micah’s a cool teacher, but God does he have high standards. I think he only gives As if your stuff is literally flawless.”

“Yeah, I’ve never gotten an A on anything in his class,” Sammy says, trying his best for casual but jovial, laughing slightly. Jack seems to buy the act, because he laughs, too. “He’s a hard ass.”

“Well, he’s only like thirty. I think we’re one of his first real classes, so he hasn’t chilled out yet,” Jack says. “Langley is the best professor in the journalism department because she’s been here so long she’ll let you get away with anything and still pass you.”

“Oh, I love her classes,” Sammy says, even though he felt pretty ambivalent about Langley up until this moment.

“Were you in Strat Comm with her last semester?” Jack asks and Sammy nods. Jack lights up and starts going on about a group project from hell. Before Sammy knows it, he’s got Jack’s phone number and a promise that they’ll study together for their next exam.

It gets a lot easier to ignore James’s calls after that. Early mornings at the radio station, Jack bringing Sammy coffee when they meet in the library, hanging out at Jack’s apartment that he shares with his sister Lily, falling asleep on Jack’s couch and waking up to Jack telling him it was fine, that he didn’t want Sammy driving home drunk anyway with real concern in his voice.

Sammy and James don’t break up, but then again, they never really got together in the first place.

Sammy doesn’t think about James much after a few months of Jack, and he chooses to ignore the implications of that. He doesn’t think about hurling himself in front of a moving car either, so he takes it as a win and moves on, hoping that he’ll never have that urge again, and that he’d have someone to talk him out of it if he did.

**3.**

Jack’s been out of town for three days, and it’s the longest Sammy’s spent without him in eight years.

Jack being out of town isn’t the problem, though, Sammy’s the problem, Sammy’s the fucking problem all the time always forever, but now the problem has become even more complicated, multifaceted, horrific, because Sammy isn’t just Sammy Stevens now, he’s _Shotgun Sammy_ and he’s on the radio every night asking girls about their cup sizes, voice dripping in sexual innuendo, sultry and sarcastic and such a fucking asshole all night, every night, and Sammy doesn’t know how to shut it off, doesn’t know how to reconcile that with waking up with Jack every morning, and he knows the longer he spends as Shotgun the shittier a boyfriend he is to Jack and Sammy can’t turn his _goddamn fucking head off-_

He’s only been _Shotgun Sammy_ for nine months, and he doesn’t think he’s ever hated himself more, not even when he was a kid and wished he was dead rather than grow up and disappoint everyone around him.

And now Sammy’s grown up and doing that disappointing daily – his father hasn’t spoken to him in years, his mother only a call every few months, Lily despises him, the only thing he has is Jack, and he loves Jack, he loves Jack more than anything in the world but that terrifies the hell out of him because he feels like everything he does is hurting Jack, almost as much as it’s hurting himself.

It’s like there are glass chards inside of him and Sammy can’t breathe around them. He doesn’t want to be dead, he just wants to be _better_ and he doesn’t know what _better_ looks like.

Sometimes Jack can gentle him away from the ledge he’s on without even realizing what he’s doing, just by kissing Sammy good morning or burning dinner or giving up a look in the studio like _I know just what you’re thinking_ but Jack doesn’t know what Sammy’s thinking right now because he’s not here.

Sammy can’t stop shaking as he stares at himself in his bathroom mirror, barely recognizing his reflection. He hates looking at himself. He usually considers himself the definition of average, and doesn’t feel the need to reassert that claim, but right now he looks like a fucking mess, probably because he is one.

Sammy realizes quite a while later that his gaze has slipped from his own reflection to staring down at his razor. Or maybe it’s Jack’s. Sammy doesn’t know.

Jack. Shit. Jack.

Sammy’s glad his phone’s in his pocket, because he doesn’t think he’d make it to the bedroom, his muscles atrophying in place. It’s hard enough to get the phone without dropping it, and click on Jack’s name in his recent call history.

Sammy’s terrified of what he’ll do if Jack doesn’t pick up, but when Jack’s voice answers on the fourth ring, “Hey, what’s up?”, Sammy’s entire body floods with pure terror and he can’t answer.

“Sammy, you there?” Jack asks. Casual. He doesn’t know anything’s wrong. He knows Sammy’s been stressed, because that’s the excuse Sammy keeps giving him. Stressed about the move, stressed about fighting with Lily, stressed about Shotgun and the execs and someone finding out about them and firing them on the spot.

Jack kisses Sammy’s forehead, tells him that it’ll get easier soon, and goes back to sleep while Sammy stares at the ceiling and tries to tell himself that whatever he’s thinking isn’t worth waking Jack over. It’s stupid, it’s pointless, Sammy’s just an idiot.

He should be happy. His dream job, in Los Angeles, with Jack. Even if things aren’t perfect, Sammy should be happy.

“Okay, assuming this is a butt dial, call me back if it’s not,” Jack says, and Sammy forces his mouth to form words.

“I’m here,” Sammy says, and it feels like he’s speaking through film, like his voice is disconnected from his body.

Jack’s voice immediately softens, concern evident. “Hey. Are you alright? You sound weird.”

Sammy swallows, and it’s almost painful, his throat is so constricted. “I – sorry. I don’t – when are you getting home again?”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Jack says slowly, like he’s putting Sammy together like a puzzle from hundreds of miles away. Jack’s up north this weekend in a series of boring meetings with the higher-ups at their station that he told Sammy he didn’t want to come to anyway, and Sammy had nodded and listened, knowing Jack meant well but wishing he was there all the same. “Should I drive home tonight? You…. _really_ don’t sound good.”

“I’m fine,” Sammy says, automatic, but then squeezes his eyes shut and forces himself to speak again. “I – I’m sorry, I’m really not. If there’s something – something important tomorrow, don’t come home, but – but if you can miss it, I really need –”

 “Need what?” Jack’s voice is so soft, so sweet, and Sammy closes his eyes and focuses just on that, even though his nausea is worse at even the thought of doing anything that would hurt Jack. “There’s nothing important, just some bullshit whatever – I’ll leave in the next hour, alright? Can you wait until then? Do you need – should I call someone?”

“Who?” Sammy’s laugh is bitter. “No one really gives a shit here. I never thought I’d miss Florida, but –”

“I give a shit, I’m coming right now,” Jack says, his voice firm, and Sammy can hear something in the background – a zipper, probably Jack’s suitcase. “I’m gonna stay on the phone with you, but – seriously, babe, do I need to call 911 for you?”

 “Stupid,” Sammy tells him, voice wobbling just a bit. “Stupid that I can’t function without you for three fucking days, that I can’t function in general –”

“Stay on the phone,” Jack tells him, and Sammy can hear the begging and pleading quality of his voice, like he’s scared. God. Sammy didn’t want to scare Jack. It just makes him feel worse. He should be better than this.

Jack keeps talking to Sammy for his four hour drive home, and looking back, Sammy thinks that’s what did it, what got his body out of that lethargic state where he didn’t feel connected to it, knowing that Jack was going to stay with him throughout it all, from miles away.

Sammy’s sitting on the bathroom floor when he hears the door opening and Jack’s voice in his ear saying “I’m here, I’m here, give me two fucking seconds, I wish we didn’t have these bullshit electronic keys that never work –”

And then Jack’s got his arms around Sammy and they just sit like that for a long time, not talking now, just sitting there, and Sammy lets Jack say a million different things when he’s ready, not feeling good but at least better than he did before.

“We can quit,” Jack says, Sammy’s head on his chest. “We can quit tomorrow, I don’t care.”

“No,” Sammy shakes his head, his voice coming out in a croak. “No, Jack, don’t. It’s – it’s just a job.”

“It’s not worth it if it’s making you miserable,” Jack whispers, his voice shaking. “There are plenty of jobs in the world.”

“I – it’s just my brain fucking me over, it’s not –” Sammy can’t look at Jack as he tries to articulate it. “I don’t want to die, Jack. I want to be here with you but I’m so fucking shit at it, and you don’t deserve it, and –”

“Don’t say that,” Jack’s grip on Sammy tightens. “I love you, and I don’t ever want to be without you. If you weren’t here – God, I’d lose my mind, Sammy. You’re my whole life.”

“You’re just –” Sammy tries to say but Jack shakes his head. “I’m not – I’ll never be good like you, Jack, I –”

“No,” Jack says firmly. “C’mon, Sammy. Know who you’re talking to here. Me, with all my self-involved bullshit where I block everything else out for weeks at a time, and getting obsessive over the weirdest shit. and I’m fully aware how selfish I am, but that never stops me from pulling myself out of it – and this time, you could’ve really hurt yourself because I wasn’t noticing anything around me. This is on me.”

“It’s not your job to take care of me,” Sammy starts but Jack shushes him again.

“It’s not my job, it’s – I want to, I _want_ to take care of you, I’m just really goddamn awful at it,” Jack kisses Sammy’s hair. “I’m so sorry, so sorry I wasn’t here, so sorry I left when you were breaking and I would’ve noticed if I’d _just_ – I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

Sammy lets Jack hold him, lets Jack whisper reassurances to him, and Jack says “We’re going to – to work harder at this, okay? If we’re not quitting, then we need to take care of ourselves a little better. A therapist. Maybe – maybe some antidepressants. _Something_.”

Sammy’s terrified, but knows he can’t argue, knows that it would be pointless, that this is something he needs even if he doesn’t want it, but what he does want is to be better, to stay here with Jack, to not just stop not wanting to exist but actually enjoy his life.

It sounds far off, but Sammy tries to think of moments he’s been truly happy, and they’re all with Jack. Jack waking him up by shoving a coffee pot in his face, Jack rattling off a series of statistics about something Sammy barely understands, Jack’s face scrunched up in delight when Sammy splashed him the first day that got to Los Angeles and drove down to the beach.

Sammy nods, Jack kisses him, and nothing is okay but there’s something to reach out for.

**4.**

Sammy thinks it’s pretty fucking pointless to keep taking his meds if Jack’s gone.

What’s the point in trying to feel like a human being when he knows he’ll never feel alive again?

Besides, there’s no one to remind him, no one to kiss his hair and tuck him into their chest that will say _I love you,_ and if there was, Sammy wouldn’t want it anyway. He’s known since he was twenty years old that Jack’s his everything, his one and only, his one in five billion, and Jack’s just _gone._  

Sammy had tried so hard to do what Jack had done for him. He begged Jack to see a therapist, get a prescription, see if there was anything that could stop his hallucinations, but Jack had barely blinked at him.

Sammy couldn’t help him. He should’ve been able to stop this, but he didn’t, and now Jack was gone, gone without a trace, only leaving behind a running car and a notebook that made no sense and the tattered remains of whatever Sammy was now.

Sammy wants to die every single day, but he holds onto the vain hope that Jack is still alive somewhere, even though everyone around him talks like he’s dead.

His producers say things like _well, he went a bit kooky toward the end there_ and Jack’s parents say _did he ever even make a will? He’s only thirty two, I doubt he even thought of it, no one should have to think of it_ and Lily says _it’s your fault he’s dead._

Sammy doesn’t realize that’s what the police think too until they bring him in for a third round of questioning.

“We just need to go over the timeline again,” the officer tells him with narrowed eyes. They’re in an interrogation room instead of the room for bereaved family and friends this time, and Sammy can’t stop shaking. “Is there something wrong, Mr. Stevens?”

“Obviously,” Sammy’s voice is a rasp. He’s been sobbing his eyes out every night. It’s been almost two months. His bed doesn’t smell like Jack anymore. “But the timeline – what about it?”

The officer frowns. “The problem is that no one – and I mean _no one_ – saw Mr. Wright on January 3rd except for you. No one saw Mr. Wright on January 2nd except for you. No one saw him on January 1st except for –”

“I get the picture,” Sammy interrupts. “And I told you already – he was – he wasn’t himself, he was isolating himself from everything. Have you talked to our coworkers at all? They can tell you – he stopped showing up for work.”

“Yes,” the officer sighs through her nose. “That part of your story is corroborated.”

“My _story_ –?” Sammy starts, then realizes with deadened finality. “You think – you think I had something to do with this.”

“I think that there are parts of your story that don’t add up,” the officer says, her gaze unflinching. “I think you aren’t being entirely honest with me. Whether that means you had something to do with it, I don’t know. But I’d like to go over everything again so you can share with me any details you missed before.”

“I can’t –” Sammy laughs because there’s nothing else to do, and he knows it makes him sound insane. “You think – what? That I helped him run away? That I killed him and dumped his body somewhere? What is that you think?”

“I think you behave like someone with something to hide,” the officer says, not even blinking. “And whether that has to do with Mr. Wright’s disappearance, I have no idea. I’d love for you to let me know.”

“Haven’t you talked to Lily?” Sammy asks, head pounding through his skull.

“What does Mr. Wright’s sister have to do with this? We’re talking about you,” the officer says.

Huh. Lily didn’t tattle. Sammy would thank her if it hadn’t put him in this hot water, and if Lily would speak to him beyond blaming him for everything that happened.

Sammy doesn’t know what the ramifications will be, but shows her the ring on his right ring finger anyway. Right, to deflect attention, but so he could still see it. He didn’t want to see it, not right now, but it was a reminder that Jack loved him, even if Sammy had never felt more alone in his life.

His hand shakes uncontrollably as the officer raises a steady eyebrow at his hand.

“Engagement ring,” Sammy gets out in choked words. This isn’t how he imagined coming out to anyone, and the last person he’d imagined coming out to. “We live together in a tiny house in the suburbs in our thirties. I’m sure you suspected.”

The officer purses her lips.

Sammy has to answer dozens more questions, but he’s let go in the end, and on the drive home, thinks about driving past his house and directly into the ocean.

He doesn’t, but mainly because his body made the turn to get off the freeway without Sammy thinking about it. Everything’s been autopilot for him lately, especially the show. He knows that Sammy’s grief and pain is spilling over into Shotgun’s persona, that Shotgun is cracking around the edges. He can’t keep it up for much longer.

And if he doesn’t have Shotgun, there’s nothing left. He can’t be Sammy without Jack, that’s an impossibility.

Sammy gets home, thinks about all the different ways he could die. This isn’t the first time he’s done this, but it never feels more pressing than today. The police think he might’ve killed Jack. He had to tell a police officer about their relationship. He doesn’t know if that makes him more or less guilty in their eyes, and isn’t sure if he wants to find out.

He’s emptied out a dozen pill bottles and is in the middle of googling what he needs to take in order to never wake up when his brain starts listing all the reasons why _he can’t fucking do this._

Lily would bring him back from the dead just to murder him again. The police might assume suicide was an admission of guilt and Sammy would be remembered forever as the person who killed Jack Wright. Worse, they might stop looking for Jack. Jack could still be out there somewhere, he could need Sammy’s help.

He’s got two choices, Sammy realizes numbly as he stares at the all the little white tablets on his bathroom counter. He can either believe Jack is dead or believe Jack is alive. Just because everyone around him is assuming the former doesn’t mean it’s true.

If Jack’s dead, nothing matters. If Jack’s dead, Sammy can take the pills.

But Sammy doesn’t believe Jack’s dead, he knows it with a deep certainty, can feel it in his chest in a place he never knew existed before now. He knows that Jack’s not dead, that something took Jack, something –

Paranormal, Sammy doesn’t know if he buys. But he buys it a hell of a lot more than he would’ve six months ago. But something, supernatural or human, took Jack. Jack wouldn’t have left. No matter how erratic he was, no matter how closed off, he wouldn’t have just left.

Lily’s voice is in the back of his head. _Maybe he just didn’t love you enough._

Sammy squeezes his eyes shut to block her out. She’s always here, always in the back of his mind with her snide commentary and hurtful jabs.

 _Shut up_ , Sammy tells mind-Lily. _He loved me. I know he did. I have this ring to prove it. He wouldn’t have left me._

It sounds petulant and desperate, but it’s also true. Sammy knows Jack, and knows Jack would never leave, not on purpose, not without a goodbye or a promise of coming back.

Something had been wrong with him, something way beyond what drugs or a therapist could fix, something beyond what Sammy could gentle him away from.

Sammy leaves his bathroom a mess and goes to Jack’s laptop, looks at his search history. The police have already done this, they already know how his last few weeks were spent. King Falls message boards, Reddit threads, the Chamber of Commerce website for the town, ads for businesses there, lists of names and numbers that make no sense to Sammy but Jack had meticulously penned down in his notebook.

Sammy clicks through everything, finally landing on a website for a radio station. _King Falls AM._ Bad font, outdated page, a list of boring looking shows.

And an e-mail address for the station owner.

Sammy doesn’t know what he’s doing. He only knows that if he wants to stay alive, then he can’t do it here, in this house, in _Jack’s_ house. He can only stay alive if he’s doing something, anything, to get closer to Jack. To figure out what happened. To get him home safely.

That last one’s a long shot, but it’s all Sammy has. It’s either that or the pills in the bathroom. He figures that this one is worth the try, and if it doesn’t work out – well, there’s always the other option.

**5.**

Sammy’s made his decision before Christmas.

He can pretend otherwise, but he knows it’s the truth. He knows this is the last Christmas he’ll spend alive, and he tries to make it good, keep everything fun and happy for Ben. Ben deserves that from him, a nice, ordinary, normal Sammy who isn’t falling apart.

That’s Sammy’s goal, to keep it together long enough to tell Ben that he’s moving back to the big city, that he’ll miss him but he got a great job offer, and everything was going to be fine now because Ben had Emily, she was safe and whole and Sammy had no doubt they’d work themselves out before May.

He could leave knowing that he’d taken care of Ben, and that Emily could take over and make sure Ben stayed safe. That’s all Sammy needed before he left.

That plan went to shit, of course, because it was hard to pretend when Ben already knew everything else, when Ben was so wide-eyed and concerned and begging Sammy to stay with him, that Ben loved him always.

It was so hard to keep up the pretenses, the façade, but Sammy had become an expert at that and even though his old mask had been destroyed, he had a new one now, and he thinks he’s fooling Ben, fooling Emily, fooling the whole town.

They don’t stop him. They beg and plead but Sammy might as well be immune to it. He’s made his decision. He’s tried one thing, and now he’s trying the other. Like he told Ben.

Ben just doesn’t have a full picture of what the other thing is.

From the moment Sammy heard Lily’s show, the second Debbie said Jack’s name, it all clicked into place. Jack hadn’t been having hallucinations. It was Debbie, or some other shadow person, creeping into Jack’s periphery until they took him over entirely.

The Void is a better suicide than a gun or a car or a razor or pills or anything else Sammy could dream up. He had no idea what would happen to him after any of that, if he’d still be anything at all, but he knows that he’ll be _something_ in the Void, even if it’s just a terrifying voice on call-in radio.

And Jack’s there. Sammy could find him.

It’s as close to a reassurance as anything else.

Sammy hugs Ben goodbye on April 30th and doesn’t tell Ben it’s the last time. Ben begs him to come over, spend the night at his apartment, because if Sammy’s going, Ben deserves a little more time with him today.

Sammy doesn’t want Ben to miss him when he’s gone, so he says no. He says it like an asshole, like Shotgun Sammy would have. He wants Ben’s last memory of him to be a shitty one, in the hopes that it would help Ben get over losing him faster.

It doesn’t work. Nothing Sammy does ever works.

After it all happens, after the terror of the Void and the Shadows and Walt, after the equally enormous terror of the Rainbow Lights chasing him down the highway and swooping away at the last second, Sammy still doesn’t want to exist but he wants Ben, he wants Ben close and present and next to him, and Ben obliges immediately.

He crashes into Sammy in the parking lot of the school auditorium, and Sammy sobs and clings to him and doesn’t even try to stop himself.

Sammy does try to talk Ben out of taking him back to Ben’s apartment, but he only gets a few words out before Ben glares at him, hurt and wounded and so young, and Sammy has to do whatever he asks.

“I’m sorry,” Sammy says for the millionth time the next day, the next week, the next month. Ben’s not letting Sammy leave. Sammy doesn’t want to leave. If Sammy’s alive and Jack’s not here, then the only place he ever wants to be is next to Ben.

“Shh,” Ben advises him from the kitchen. Sammy’s regular position is sprawled on the couch, in clothes that haven’t been washed in three days, and hair that hasn’t been washed in equally as long. “What do you want for dinner?”

“You don’t have to –”

“I like making dinner,” Ben declares, half shooting daggers at Sammy as if daring him to challenge him. Sammy shuts up, and lets Ben hum something from Hamilton as he works in the kitchen.

“Brace yourself,” Ben says as he brings out a plate of vegetables and chicken for Sammy. “Because tomorrow –”

“I don’t wanna go anywhere,” Sammy says, a spike of panic in his chest. “I don’t wanna see anyone who isn’t you or Emily or _maybe_ Troy but even that’s –”

“Shh,” Ben says again, and reaches a hand over to ruffle Sammy’s hair. “Tomorrow, I’m going to comb this out and make you look like a human being again instead of a bird’s nest. I think you might’ve graduated into wasp’s nest territory, actually.”

“It’s fine,” Sammy says, batting Ben’s hand away. “No one has to see it except you –”

“And I’m sick of seeing it,” Ben says with a beaming smile. “Simple equation, buddy. At least I’m not gonna make you cut it.”

Sammy grumbles something about being grateful, and Ben turns on some comedy program he likes that Sammy can never remember the plot to, and Sammy lets Ben talk his ear off about some topic or another.

It’s only when it’s late and they’re both falling asleep on the couch with their dinner dishes on the floor that Ben says, in a very small voice, “It’s all gonna be okay someday, Sammy. I promise I’ll take care of you until then, but – we’re gonna find him. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Go to sleep, Ben,” Sammy whispers, trying not to get choked up. It’s not that he doesn’t believe Ben, but he still doesn’t know if he has what it takes, or if he ever will.

Ben makes him want to try, though.                                                

**+1.**

Gingerbread wakes Sammy up like she usually does – sinking her claws into Sammy’s arm and mewing at him loudly.

“Shut up,” Sammy tells her without opening his eyes, groggy and not entirely sure where he is or why there’s so much noise around him.

“It’s her birthday, don’t tell her to shut up!” He hears Ben say. He feels the cat be lifted up from his chest. “Don’t listen to him, sweetie, he doesn’t love you like I do.”

“Has anyone cleaned her litter box?” Emily asks, and it sounds like her voice is coming from the other room.

“You have company!” Lily says from far too close to Sammy’s ear, and he winces automatically. “It’s impolite to talk about cat shit in front of company.”

“Like you’re one to talk about impoliteness,” Ben snipes at her and Sammy hears a clatter that makes him think Lily’s started wrestling Ben again, and he hears Gingerbread give them both a disgruntled mew.

“Troy and Loretta are gonna be over in ten minutes, and Tim and Mary and the kids too,” Emily’s voice is clearer, she’s reentered the room now. Sammy scrunches his eyes closed more tightly. “Sammy, you might want to get up before then or the kids are gonna jump on you.”

“The cat’s already jumped on me,” Sammy says, his words slurring together with sleep. “Who let me fall asleep anyway?”

“You looked peaceful,” Jack’s voice says from above Sammy, and Sammy then realizes that his head is in Jack’s lap. He feels Jack move a hand through his hair, and he nuzzles into it automatically. “Besides, you were _out_ , babe. I nudged you and you just flopped around a bit. Ben even sat on your feet at some point.”

“Rude,” Sammy says in what he thinks is in Ben’s direction, but Ben’s yelp says that Lily’s probably pinned him to the floor by now.

“Lily, get off of my husband,” Emily says in an absentminded voice, proving Sammy’s theory correct. “I need him to finish making the stuffing.”

“Stuffing is Thanksgiving food, not Christmas food,” Lily says, but from Ben’s sigh of relief, Sammy can tell that Lily’s gotten off of him.

“Do we get cranberries then?” Sammy asks into Jack’s leg, still not willing to open eyes or move at all.

“No, because they’re gross,” Jack says at the same time Ben says “That’s disgusting.”

They both laugh and Sammy feels pressure on his legs that means Ben’s sitting on him again, and try as he might, his feet are pinned down and he can’t kick Ben away.

“Jack, can you come get the roast plate off the top shelf?” Emily asks. “I think you’re the only one who can reach it without the ladder.”

“Yeah –” Jack starts to move and Sammy makes a petulant noise as he buries his face in Jack’s lap and flops an arm out to hug his legs to the couch.

“Don’t steal him,” Sammy says, muffled, and everyone laughs, except for Lily who just groans. “Wait for Troy to come over, he’s the tallest.”

“Alright,” Emily says, clearly humoring him, but there’s amusement in her voice. “Just remember you need to get up at some point in the near future.”

“C’mon,” Jack starts pulling at Sammy’s shoulders and Sammy groans. “Get up. Ben’s holding Gingerbread, but I bet he’ll give her to you if you get up.”

“Gingerbread’s not an incentive,” Ben says in a sulky tone but Sammy pulls his legs out from under Ben anyway. “It’s her birthday, you heathens. Why am I the only person here who cares that it’s her birthday?”

Sammy opens his eyes just in time to see the amused look Jack gives Ben over his shoulder, his eyes crinkling around the edges and smile bright. He doesn’t look twenty anymore, but Sammy’s still reminded of the first time he saw Jack, all bright and cheerful and wonderful.

Sammy cracks his back as he sits up, making Lily in the armchair next to the couch wince at him, but nestles back into Jack’s setting, pulling Jack’s arm around his shoulder.

“You keep Gingerbread,” Sammy mutters, shifting to get his arms around Jack. “I’m just gonna go back to sleep…”

“Christmas Eve dinner is served in thirty minutes and none of you are being helpful,” Emily says in a sing-song, not at all serious voice from the kitchen. Most of the meal’s been done for hours already.

“I’m Jewish,” Ben says in a snide voice as Lily says “oh, _I’ll_ come help, Emily.”

“Don’t,” Ben whines when Lily gives him an exaggerated wink. “We’re married! I have rights!”

Emily crosses into the living room to put an arm around Ben’s shoulder and kiss the top of his head. She’s wearing a _Kiss the Cook_ apron that Sammy thinks is Ben’s originally, but they’ve all just moved into the house and all of their stuff is jumbled together now, and probably will stay that way forever.

Forever, Sammy thinks, looking up at Jack, who’s saying something to Emily about creamed corn with a bright smile. He usually talks with his hands but he’s still got his arms around Sammy and doesn’t seem like he’s making any plans to move.  

Sammy thinks about nestling in further but then he catches a glimpse of Ben nuzzling Gingerbread’s head and thinks that he gets that forever too. He gets everything here, in this house, with his husband and his friends, for the rest of his life.

“Hey,” Jack’s smile slips a bit when he looks down at Sammy. “What’s with the face? You good?”

Sammy nods, choked up suddenly, but it isn’t at all like all the other times in his life he couldn’t speak.

He can’t remember ever being happier than he is right now.

“Yeah,” Sammy whispers, then clears his throat. “I think Ben wants us to sing happy birthday to Gingerbread, though.”

Ben _beams,_ Lily rolls her eyes, but they all join in a chorus as Ben snuggles Gingerbread to his chest with the most satisfied smile.

Gingerbread meows at them when they’re done, looking up at Ben with her big kitty eyes.

“She liked it,” Ben coos down at her, and he flops in Sammy’s direction, leaning his forehead on his shoulder. “Say thank you to Sammy, Gingerbread.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Sammy says, but disentangles himself from Jack to take Gingerbread from Ben’s arms and kiss her fluffy face.

“You’re all ridiculous,” Lily informs them.

“You were singing, too,” Jack points out with a snide smile and Lily throws a pillow in his direction but it hits Ben instead of Jack, which Lily seems equally as pleased by.

“Okay, kitchen? Kitchen,” Emily gives them all expectant looks as she turns away, and before long Sammy and Gingerbread are the last people in the living room.

“You want to go eat Christmas Eve dinner?” Sammy asks Gingerbread quietly and Gingerbread mews as she paws at the hair falling out of Sammy’s bun. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You’re adorable,” Jack says from where he’s turned in the doorway, hands in his pockets and giving Sammy a goofy, sappy smile.

“Just happy,” Sammy says, and Jack’s smile gets softer as he crosses back into the room.

“Me too,” Jack says, and kisses the top of Sammy’s head.

They stay like that for a minute, Sammy holding the cat and pressing his head into Jack’s chest, before they join the rest of their family.


End file.
